He knew how to fight, how to use every weapon. His strategies were beyond compare. He’d been raised as a warrior from the start and did not fear death. Nor did he court it. Hades would do whatever he must in order to win. Eros would never be able to say the same.
Hades looked at Taylor and saw the defiance in her eyes. Something inside of him rose to take up the challenge.
Taylor was different. She’d made that abundantly clear with her barely veiled disdain. If he hadn’t sensed her fleeting attraction before she’d realized who he was, Hades might have been able to let her be.
But he had sensed it.
Now it was too late. The flash of awareness coupled with her flare of temper intrigued him. Most women fell over themselves to please him, but not Taylor. She wanted nothing to do with him. The question was why?
Hades immediately began to strategize, running all the options, evaluating the various outcomes. In the end, the answer was always the same.
Taylor would learn to bow before the Dark King…like all the others who’d come before her.
Who knows, he thought. She might even learn to like it.
Hades gave her an evil grin infused with sheer determination. Taylor’s full breasts quivered delectably under his unflinching regard. She shifted her long, sensuous legs and glanced around as if she’d flee given half the chance.
He inhaled. A rich, spicy scent tickled his sensitive nose. Hades’ eyes fluttered closed and his head spun as he drank her in. If she tasted half as good as she smelled, she’d be delicious. He breathed in again, this time deeper. Now there was nowhere that she could hide that he wouldn’t find her.
“Run,” he ordered.
Taylor squeaked and took off in the direction from which she’d come.
Hades watched her go, feeling his anticipation rise as he prepared to give chase. He looked forward to giving Taylor her first lesson in obedience. He had no doubt that when he caught her that there would be a battle of wills. Hers cast from Earth’s soft soil and his cast from iron.
He might bend, but the Dark King would never break.
Hades wondered if the same could be said for Taylor. There was only one way to find out. He surged up from the throne and roared.
# # #
ARCHANGELS OF PUNISHMENT: DEATH ANGELS
SNEAK PEEK EXCERPT
Ardan Chemah stood over the man he'd just killed, waiting for the soul to forsake the corpse. There was a hiss, followed by a loud wail. He listened to the soul's mournful cry slowly dissipate as it departed to circle the globe one last time, before eventually leaving this realm.
Whether it would ascend or descend was not his call, nor did he care. His job was done. Already the man's name faded from his memory. Soon another would replace the name, then Ardan's time here on earth would be done.
Glass crunched beneath his black boot-heels as he left the scene. The body would be discovered soon enough. No need to draw attention to it. The humid exhaust-filled air smacked his face, coating his skin in a thin sheen of sweat and grime.
He heard boisterous laughter drawing nearer and turned to go in the opposite direction. Like all Archangels of Punishment, Ardan preferred the company of shadows. Daylight reminded him too much of the endless separation from the Above.
He inhaled. The scent of urine, feces, and desperation clogged his nostrils and burned his eyes. He looked around in disgust at the depravity. Moses slaying him lifetimes ago had not changed Ardan’s opinion of the species. They didn't deserve the gifts that had been bestowed upon them. With a single order, he'd gladly wipe out the blight that had become humanity.
Darkness closed around him. A sallow streetlight flickered in the distance as the first signs of a new call--his last--hit him. Ardan gasped. His back bowed. His jaw clenched as heat infused him a second before his left arm burst into flames.
The invisible red and black tether that kept him connected to Aiden Finn Colg, Af—or the Prince of Wrath as their father called him—strained as his body contorted.
Ardan dropped to his knees onto the filth, trembling as the powers of the heavens surged through him. The skin on his back split, tearing the newly healed flesh on his shoulder blades open again.
A cry ripped from his throat before he could stop it. The seedy world around him dimmed as black wings laced with lethally sharp feathers shredded his shirt, leaving the material in tatters.
Moisture trickled down his spine and dripped onto the pavement. His angelic blood blended with the waste that littered the ground, searing away the grime. Ardan took big gulps of air to combat the nausea that always came with a call and slowly rose to his feet. He shuddered one last time as he absorbed the fire into the flesh of his arm and waited for the name of his next target to appear.
In all his time on earth, he'd never received a call so soon after dispatching another. Not that he was complaining. Quite the opposite.
Ardan wanted this to be over, wanted his time here to be done. The longer he remained in this realm the harder it was to resist the temptations that mankind offered. The pull to yield was something every archangel had to battle in this world. Some failed. Others fell. Yet still others returned triumphant, their place in the heavens guaranteed.
A crack-addled junkie in need of his next fix stumbled into the alley, smelling of rot and death. He glanced at Ardan through bloodshot eyes, no doubt trying to determine if he was an easy mark. His gaze landed on Ardan's wings and the man blinked. His eyes widened and he shook his head as if to clear it.
Despite the drugs coursing through the junkie's veins impairing his judgment, he was cognizant enough to sense the danger radiating from the archangel's body. "I don't want any trouble, Batman," he slurred, then slowly backed out of the alley in search of easier prey.
Ardan watched him go. His body shook with the urge to slay the man where he stood. He curled his hands into fists. A few deep breaths later, the impulse slowly receded. Ardan stretched his wings until the black tips touched the sides of the dilapidated brick buildings that lined the alley, feeling unencumbered once again. He flapped his wings, slowly at first, then faster, building in power until his feet left the ground.
The overflowing dumpsters scattered throughout the alley screeched as they began to move. Ardan flapped harder and the bins flew down the alley out into the streets before slamming into the boarded up businesses on the far side of the road.
Within seconds, the alley was clear of debris. Ardan drew his wings in and dropped to the ground. He inhaled deeply, tasting fresh air for the first time this evening.
He glanced down at his arm. Etched deeply in his skin like it had been chiseled into stone was the name, Paul Druthers. It mattered not that there were many by that name in this world. Ardan would know when he encountered the right one.
The name would remain burned into his flesh until Paul Druthers's soul had been dispatched.
Ardan didn't care what the man had done to be marked for death. It wasn't his place to question orders. He lifted his head, tugged at the tether that kept him bound to his brother, Wrath in order to loosen it, then took to the sky. He'd find Paul Druthers, like he'd found all the others. It might take time, but then again, time meant little to death angels.
* * * * *
“You’ve done it, Paul,” Gedeon said. A smile split his handsome face as he grabbed him by the shoulders and clapped him on the back. “You’ve cracked the angelic language code.”
“I have, haven’t I?” Dr. Paul Druthers grinned. He had done it. He’d finally done it. After years of toiling in obscurity, he’d made a discovery that would put him in the annals of archeological history. No, more than that, his discovery was about to change the world.
“They won’t call you ‘Mad Dog Druthers’ anymore,” Gedeon said.
Paul grimaced. “No, they won’t.” He sat back down in his Aeron chair as reality set in. His colleagues had thought him insane when he’d gone on the dig at Qumran. They’d said that everything on the West Bank worth uncoverin
g had already been discovered, but he’d proven them wrong when he’d found the scrolls containing a previously unknown language and several Greek pithos containers a year ago.
It was an odd combination. One not easily explained. Everyone had a theory as to why, but Paul didn’t care. His only interest was with the scrolls. When tests determined that they pre-dated Sanskrit, those same colleagues descended upon him, begging to be part of his research, but Paul had steadfastly refused.
Instead, he’d hired Gedeon Collins, an Irish post grad student who seemed to have an uncanny ability to piece together the symbols. And now, Paul had cracked what he and Gedeon had coined ‘the Angelic Language Code’. And that was exactly what he planned to call it at the press conference scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
Several of his colleagues had laughed at him when he’d theorized that an angelic language existed. Even amateur theologian scholars had expressed skepticism, until Paul had released the carbon dating results and his initial findings.
If what he’d discovered was true—and he knew it was—it would provide definitive proof that angels existed, had their own unique language, and might very well walk among them. Of course, the latter was only a theory.
Paul still hadn’t finished deciphering all the scrolls, but his discoveries thus far could realistically change the face of religion.
A chill swept up his body, settling its icy fingers around his neck. Paul shivered, despite the warmth of the room. He glanced at Gedeon, who was still grinning at him.
“What’s wrong?” Gedeon’s smile faded.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” No need to ruin the mood. “I think this calls for a celebration.” Paul hopped up from his chair.
Gedeon watched him for a moment more, his all too knowing gaze assessing him, then nodded. Paul waited until his assistant’s attention shifted back to the scrolls, before letting his smile drop. He desperately needed a drink.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
Gedeon glanced up. His piercing green eyes peeked out behind a curtain of ebony hair to spear him in place. “Yes, I’ll be right there. I just want to go over our findings one more time. It doesn’t hurt to triple check.”
“We already have.” Paul slapped him on the shoulder, causing his own fingers to sting. He casually shook off the pain. For someone who hardly left the lab, Gedeon seemed remarkably fit. “You’re too young to worry so much. You should come out and celebrate with me.”
Amusement sparked in the depths of Gedeon’s eyes. “You heading off to the pub?”
“Where else?” Paul laughed.
Gedeon’s attention strayed once more to their work.
Paul shook his head and grabbed his suit jacket. “Don’t take too long. It’s no fun to drink alone.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” he said absently.
* * * * *
Gedeon watched Druthers amble out the door, whistling Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah as he strolled down the hall. He grinned. Let him have his moment. He’d worked hard enough for this achievement. Only Gedeon knew it wouldn’t last.
Paul’s footfalls faded. Gedeon’s shoulders slumped and he took a long shuddering breath as he dropped into the chair to study the symbols and letters, painstakingly piecing them together like a child first learning to read.
There was a time when he’d been able to read this text easily, but that was before the Fall, before his own language had been viciously plucked from his mind. Erased as thoroughly as sponge to chalk on slate.
Bitterness welled and he crushed it. There was no time to wallow over ancient hurts. Gedeon had no doubt the Above was already aware of their discovery. He had to act fast before the Winged ones descended.
What he was about to do was a long shot. Gedeon knew that...just like he knew it would attract some very unwanted attention, but what choice did he have? The Winged ones—or angels as the humans called them—had decimated the Nephilim’s numbers. To protect their offspring, the Nephilim had given their children up for adoption.
They’d hoped to reunite with them after a few years, but the war raged on longer than anyone anticipated. Eventually, the remaining Nephilim hid and the angels declared victory.
In their arrogance, it never occurred to them that they’d actually failed, but by then the Nephilim children and their descendants had been lost in time. There weren’t enough full-blooded Nephilim remaining to rebuild their numbers. Without their children, one more attack by the Winged ones might succeed in eradicating them for good.
As leader of the Nephilim, Gedeon couldn’t allow that to happen. Not if there was a way to stop them. He opened his inbox and clicked on the email button. A new window opened. He minimized it, then clicked on the file of email addresses he’d been gathering over the years.
He blind carbon copied them into the slot and began the painstaking process of composing the ‘joke’. Given the speed at which these types of emails circled the globe, he should be able to reach thousands of people, perhaps hundreds of thousands within a week.
The embedded angelic code coupled with his gifts would hopefully be enough to trigger the children’s latent powers. When it did, he and his remaining brethren would sense them, and hopefully find most of them before the Winged ones.
Worst case, the email would do nothing and he would have to find some other way to locate them. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Gedeon knew this was their last chance.
He finished typing the email and read it once more. His finger hovered above the mouse. Gedeon took a deep breath and clicked send. It was done. The only thing to do now was wait.
He glanced at his watch. An hour had passed. Paul would be deep in his cups by the time Gedeon reached the pub. He grinned to himself and shut down the computer. Now it was time to celebrate.
Gedeon gathered his things and made his way toward the door. He was flipping off the lights and preparing to lock up behind him, when the first ripple of power hit. It was quickly followed by another burst, this time much closer and far stronger.
“Paul,” Gedeon gasped, clutching his chest, then reached for his cellphone and dialed 911.
The Winged ones had arrived.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Dr. Paul Druthers sat at the bar of his favorite Welsh pub in the Central West End, a trendy upscale part of St. Louis filled with turn of the century mansions that still managed to maintain a cozy neighborhood feel.
Full of rich wood paneling, deep comfy booths, and imported beer, the pub was the closest you could get to the United Kingdom without having to leave the states. Not that Paul planned to stay in the states for long. His travel schedule was about to get extremely busy thanks to his new discovery.
Paul giggled, grinning down at the drink in front of him, his third. What better place to celebrate his accomplishments than here? There’d be time enough for parties and professional gatherings later. Tonight was his and Gedeon’s alone. He glanced at his watch. What was keeping his assistant? He should’ve been here by now.
He'd just finished enjoying the sweet burn of his third glass of scotch whiskey, when the sense of unease returned, settling uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. It was the same sensation he'd gotten the second he’d broken the code. He’d blamed it on exhaustion.
After all he’d been pulling hours that would shame a college freshman during fraternity rush week. But he wasn’t exhausted now. In fact, he was still riding high from the adrenaline rush of success. So why was he finding it darn near impossible to shake the feeling that something was very wrong?
Thunder cracked the sky, shaking the bottles behind the bar. Paul set his empty glass down and glanced out the window. Bright sunlight filtered inside. Odd, that.
His gaze slid around the room. Familiar faces stared back at him from the booths and nearby bar stools. Locals one and all that he recognized, knew, said hello to on occasion.
Paul liked this place because the drinks were good and the company even better. Best of all, he didn
't have to drive to get here. All he had to do was step out his lab and walk across Forest Park.
Normally the walk relieved the tension from work, but it hadn’t needed to this evening. No, this evening was for celebrating. And he was determined to enjoy himself.
He’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. There was no cause for concern. It was natural to worry that he might have made a mistake in his translations, but he knew that wasn’t the case. Everything had been triple checked for accuracy.
Paul rolled his tense shoulders and tried to ignore the growing sense of dread creeping through him, attempting to snatch his jubilation like a thief in the night.
The sound of thunder came again, this time closer. Paul jumped, then nodded to the bartender. Another whiskey appeared before him with a glass of water on the side. Paul took a sip, welcoming the fire that followed. He’d never been one for liquid courage, but today he needed it.
A breeze blew in from the open door, bringing with it the smell of flowering heather. Paul frowned. Heather didn’t grow in the area and it certainly didn’t bloom in early June. He glanced at his whiskey, eyeing the dark amber liquid suspiciously, before taking another sip.
As he put his glass down, Paul caught his rosy-cheeked reflection in the brewery mirrors hanging behind the beer taps. It was the face of a happy man.
The reflection slowly changed into a nightmare. Glowing blue eyes, the color of glaciers and just as cold stared back at him from a face so austere that it could've been found carved on a mausoleum.
Paul spun around so fast that he nearly toppled off his stool, but there was no one there. His hands shook as he tossed back the rest of the whiskey. He was imagining things. He had to be. No matter what his colleagues thought, he was not insane.
He pulled out fifty dollars and slapped it onto the bar, then gathered his suit jacket. Paul reached the door of the pub and paused to look around one more time, taking in the dark wood and crowded booths. The warmth and familiarity did little to comfort him.
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